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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28898277">An Exercise in Cooperation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual'>NervousAsexual</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, M/M, No Aftercare, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Skull Fucking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:00:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,612</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28898277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything Father does has a purpose. Even this.</p><p>based on art by synthsinner</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Father | Shaun/Nick Valentine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p></p>
  <div>
    <p></p>
    <div>
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      <div>
        <p></p>
        <div>
          <p></p>
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            <p></p>
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              <p></p>
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                <p></p>
                <div>
                  <p>"This will hurt," Father says off-handedly. He doesn't look away from his terminal.</p>
                  <p>Nick Valentine doesn't respond. He has not said a word, has barely moved, since they severed the nerves below his waist. The threat doesn't frighten him, presumably because he is already in pain. The torn flesh on his face, the bullet in his spine, the battered lengths of his upper body, none of it has broken him so far. Right now he only lies on the floor on his side, breathing heavily. It must be a psychological comfort because his lungs are redundant and yet he breathes anyway.</p>
                  <p>Father makes a note in his file to see how he responds to suffocation.</p>
                  <p>"As you probably suspect this is not something I do with most reclaimed synths." Valentine keeps his eyes trained on the opposite wall, even when Father turns to face him. "You are a very special case. So, against my better judgement, I am going to offer you a choice. You may cooperate and remain as you are. Or you may resist. Briefly. If you choose that option, I will disable your limbs and continue, and I will make sure that you still feel everything." Still nothing. "How much input you have in this depends entirely on you."</p>
                  <p></p>
                  <div>
                    <p>In his throat something moves--a reflex, not unlike a swallow. It is a pity his model has no esophagus.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Let's have a little practical application, shall we?" Father rests his hands on his thighs. "Come over here." Briefly Valentine's eyes flicker over to him and just as quickly look back. Father tsks gently. "This will be so much easier on both of us if you cooperate."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Ask me if I care."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>A smile curls on Father's face at the soft words. "Oh, come now. You really want to lose your agency this early? Don't expect me to believe you're not holding out hope of escape." He pats his lap. "Come here."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine grinds his teeth. He drags himself to Father's knees. His legs, non-functional, he has to pull behind him.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Good boy." Father strokes a hand over his head, chuckling as Valentine winces. "When this is over perhaps you'll thank me."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Don't count on it."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Oh, I count on nothing. There is no one and nothing in this world you can rely on except yourself. But you of all people know that, don't you?"</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine's eyes stay fixed on a spot just beyond Father's shoulder. He's still breathing as if it will make any difference. Father presses his head to one side and another, tilting it for a better view of his wounds. His eyes are vacant, more so than any other second generation synth he's seen, and it's fascinating. He's developed so far beyond his initial programming. Who could have imagined a synth of this model exhibiting symptoms of shock?</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>The place where the flesh of his cheek is torn away is big enough to slip three fingers into, then four. A gentle tug at the flesh triggers a soft moan that seems to startle Valentine as much as it amuses Father.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Does that feel good?" he teases.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"No." Valentine's voice is like gravel. When Father gives a longer, steadier tug he starts as if to struggle before remembering what is happening. He stays very still. The coolant is audibly rushing through him.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Good boy." Father releases him and chuckles as he collapses. Valentine doesn't seem to be aware of it but he has hooked a hand around Father's calf in his struggle to stay upright. "You weren't prepared for that, were you?"</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine groans, low in his throat, and his breathing is heavier than ever.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Just remember what the consequences will be if you decide to make this difficult." He threads his fingers through the holes in the synth's skin. "I can make this very, very unpleasant for you." With the smallest bit of pressure on his jaw he finds he can coax Valentine's mouth open. The synth still isn't looking at him. He may not fight back, but he's not going to help with what comes next. A shame, really, but Father is confident that this will be enjoyable nonetheless. "Tell me something. Have you ever fellated my father?" As expressionless as the synth body is, he can see the confusion on his face. "Oral sex. I'm asking if you ever gave my father oral sex."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"You have got to be kidding me," Valentine mumbles. It brings a smile to Father's face. "No, I never fucking sucked your father's dick."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"There's no need to be crass. I only asked a question." He tilts Valentine's head to one side, pulling his body in between Father's thighs. "I appreciate your honesty, though. I would hate to treat you as his castoff."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine is panting now. His body is trembling, an almost touching little human quirk. "I'm nobody's castoff."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"No." Father gives his head a patronizing pat. "Of course not."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>They can both feel the growing hardness between Father's legs. "And you can just forget about me taking care of that. I'm not blowing you."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"I wouldn't expect you to."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Then what..."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Father eases the zipper down his pants. "I expect you to be still and cooperate while I skullfuck you."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>The sharp language seems to take Valentine's breath away. He starts to pull back but Father holds him firm.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"None of that unless you want me to disable your control. You may beg, if it makes you feel better."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"I knew you were low but I wouldn't have pegged you as a rapist," Valentine snarls.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"A rapist? Of course not. Were you able to give consent I would ask for it. But you are not." Father jerks his head up so that their eyes meet. "You are a machine. You can neither offer nor withdraw consent."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"I can tell you to go to hell."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"You can do that." Father pulls himself free of his clothing, one hand still hooked tightly around Valentine's head. "You can cry or moan or fight back if you choose. But it doesn't change the fact that you are a machine, and my property."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"'If I choose.' Sounds to me like you know I can offer consent. And you ain't getting it." The synth's fingers tighten around Father's calf. "Do what you want to me but don't pretend you're not what you are."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"I know very well what I am. You are the one who seems to be confused." He strokes himself and taps the end of his penis against Valentine's forehead, smiling as the synth again winces. "You are not human. You are not alive. You might as well get that through your head right now." Valentine is trying to steady his breathing. He's not even a third generation synth and he's acting as if he's in danger of losing consciousness. "I want you to sit up."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>For a moment there's no movement, but Valentine pulls himself up onto one hip, bracing his undamaged hand against Father's thigh.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"There's a good boy." He pulls Valentine's head closer as he rubs against him, lower, lower, pressing gently until finally his jaw goes slack and he is able to slip his penis into the hole torn in his cheek.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine gasps, clutching at Father's leg and squeezing his eyes closed. Weak little cries escape his throat. He appears to be feeling some degree of pain. Father allows him a moment to adjust and enjoys the sensation of the synthetic tongue cradling him. The inside of his head is warm and pleasant; he groans and his fingers tighten on Valentine's skull. "Relax your jaw. If I feel even a hint of teeth I'll be forced to remove your control."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Ah... ha..." Valentine's jaw doesn't relax but he opens his mouth a bit farther. His damaged hand grasps at Father's back.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"There we are." Father gives a few testing thrusts past the yellowed nubs of the synthetic teeth, far enough to feel himself protrude a bit from between the lips. The feeling is strange but exhilarating and he is so very ready for more. "Beautiful."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Valentine doesn't speak. Presumably he can't speak, not with a man's cock in his mouth. His good hand is still clutching to a fistful of Father's pant leg. He breathes, and it is a strange sensation as well. His damaged hand comes to cling to Father's arm on his head, but he is surprisingly gentle.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Good boy," Father breathes, and every fiber of his body means it. He rocks into the synthetic mouth and gets a small sound, almost a whimper, in return. Again, deeper, and he can see himself emerging from Valentine's mouth. The bare fingers scratch at his arm. "Don't move."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>The synth doesn't. His eyes flutter closed, and even on his manufactured face he is visibly pained. Father pulls him back and the sensation is lovely. He strokes himself gently and examines the tear in the synth's cheek, torn all the wider. Valentine gives a soft sob as he manhandles him into a better position but doesn't struggle. With the penis buried that much deeper into his mouth he just lets Father thrust into him.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>Despite Valentine's lack of analogous throat it feels better to push toward the back of his head instead of pushing forward. The hand on his arm slips down until Valentine has a handful of material clutched in either hand. He raises his eyes to Father's face before a particularly strong thrust forces him back. It feels strange, pleasing in a way Father never expected, and he rocks his hips back and forth, forcibly moving Valentine's head to make it easier. The pained grunts that escape the synth's throat grow increasingly panicked, which only adds to the alien pleasure of it and it is embarrassingly soon that Father groans in relief and ejaculates into Valentine's skull.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>He slows, slows, finally stops thrusting altogether and releases Valentine's head. He watches as the synth tries to lift himself up, pull his head free, and only manages to get himself turned slightly. It's just enough to let Father take in the humiliation in his expression--anger seems to be more than he is able to muster--and see the pleasingly thick substance of his semen begin to ooze from the synthetic face.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>As he finally grows soft Father adjusts Valentine's head to pull out and he lays back to enjoy the afterglow, watching and watching as Valentine coughs and gags. He is breathing so hard that if he were human he would have lost consciousness by now. He tries to brace his arms against Father's thighs and bows his head. The noises he makes are beautiful to Father's ears. "Ah. Ah. Sh-shit. Mmm..."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"Was that so difficult?" Father asks him. No response comes, which is enough of a response to bring a smile to his face. He gives Valentine a gentle push, and he slumps back to the floor, back into a perfect reflection of how he was before--lying on his side, breathing heavily.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>As Father cleans himself up he hums quietly, thinking of the things he is going to do to this most recently reclaimed synth. He presses his heel to Valentine's throat. This actually gets him a response.</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"No..."</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>"What was that?"</p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p>But Valentine is reduced to a quiet moan. It hardly matters. Father has a feeling that when he is stripped of the layers of humanity he has built for himself, when the weight of the Institute becomes suffocating, he will beg, and that is something to look forward to.</p>
                    <p>
                      
                    </p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p> </p>
                  </div>
                  <div>
                    <p> </p>
                  </div>
                </div>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p>He knows why this was done to him. It's not the first time someone has made him feel less than human. But god, that doesn't make it hurt any less.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>If he were able to he'd cry. There's an irony to that after what "Father" told him. Everything he feels is so very, very human, and he's not human. He's not alive. A machine shouldn't be so tired and disgusted and terrified and humiliated, but here he is.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>It's easier to just let Father do what he wants at this point. A foot to his shoulder pushes him on his back, triggering a sharp pain in the wound there, but he doesn't struggle. He doesn't bother looking at the man who's doing this to him. It's better this way. He has to keep reminding himself of that. He doesn't look--</p>
  <p>He doesn't look, which is why he doesn't fully understand what's happening until he hears the distinctive ripping noise of duct tape.</p>
  <p>"No," he manages again, but the first strip of tape is drawn across his mouth. He starts to tear it away but his eyes catch Father's. It's easier if he doesn't struggle. It's better this way.</p>
  <p>He doesn't believe that. Even so he lets the man wrap the tape around and around his head.</p>
  <p>Beneath him his fingers scratch at the floor. The tape is drawn tighter and tighter, weighing down his head. He just focuses on breathing. In, out, trying to stay calm... and then the tape is over his nose as well.</p>
  <p>He can't help it. He begs instinctively, in a voice not entirely muffled because he can speak without the artificial larynx even though he usually doesn't. He knows the lesson Father's trying to teach him. He's not human. He doesn't need to breathe to function. But all the same his body flushes with terror and he starts to struggle again before Father lets his head fall heavily to the floor and reminds him why he can still use his hands. He digs his fingers so deep into the floor that he can't feel it anymore, rocks his head back like he's drowning and this will make him break surface. It doesn't work. He knows it's all in his head but he can feel the ache of needing air in his chest and his throat and he tries to breathe through the tape but Father's work is so heavy, the entire roll of tape used, that he can't even move his head.</p>
  <p>Somewhere in the back of his mind he's aware of all this. He sees himself on the floor, hears himself begging please, please, and sees Father's pleased little smile. He watches as his hands are finally drawn to his face, tearing at the tape, but there's too much of it. There's no place to even begin to pull at it. His eyes fall closed in a parody of suffocation. He can't lose consciousness, isn't capable of that, but he's losing it anyway.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Father leaves him there on the floor, the semen beginning to dry to a tacky sheen on skin, system threatening to drag him into the darkness of a shutdown, and eventually the motion sensors turn off the lights. He's left alone in the darkness, trying to calm himself. Every part of his body aches with pain or humiliation or both. He curls around himself on the floor and reaches into his damaged body to find the stolen stimpak. Father will miss it sooner or later and once he realizes how simple it was for Valentine to pick the pocket of a man focused solely on his own pleasure there is no doubt that Father will carry out every one of his threats. But for now all he can do is drive the stim into his side and hope like hell it restores his damaged spine. Nothing for it but the waiting.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>So he waits. He waits, and he hurts, and he cries. This will work. The pain will stop. He will get out of this place, because he has to get out of this place.</p>
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